


All I loved, I loved alone

by missydogblog



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Loneliness, M/M, Murder, Poetry, poet!will
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missydogblog/pseuds/missydogblog
Summary: The stabbing in Louisiana did more than ruin the sternocostal head of Will’s right pectoral. It left him adrift, stranded in a world he could no longer reliably navigate. In the weeks he spends healing, he could open his laptop. He could apply for a teaching position in several locales, eventually leading to his employment at the FBI training academy. He could meet Jack Crawford, and he could meet the man known as the Chesapeake Ripper.He could do all of these things. Instead, he writes a poem.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Will make a livable income as a poet, and isn’t that a fantasy AU in and of itself?  
> Thanks a billion to my beta readers, and thanks to YOU for taking the time to read this labor of love. *kisses you tenderly*

_...This sort of person, then_

_May find comfort in the symmetry_

_Of dying as they were born—_

_Screaming, crying, and covered in the blood of another._

_-_ Will Graham, _Toothless Wolves Still Howl_

  
  


There was a small comfort in the knowledge that Will Graham’s evening was going precisely as he expected it to. It was by no means pleasant, drenched in the smell of expensive perfume and the lingering sense of opulence and self importance, but at least it was predictable. If he closed his eyes, Will could clearly picture how the following hour would play out, ending with the decadent feeling of sliding into his car and putting this fucking place in his rear view mirror. The thought alone settled him enough to smile at the next person who spoke to him, and it didn’t even feel too much like a grimace. 

In his periphery he could just see the flare of Beverly’s dress, a deep blue thing that made her look elegant and stunning without standing out in the crowd. True to an earlier promise, she never strayed too far from his side, and for it Will was deeply grateful. She’d told him it was so he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable in a room of unfamiliar socialites, but Will suspected it had more to do with her not trusting him to not make an ass of himself (and her, by association). Will took no offense to this. He didn’t trust himself either, especially with the way he kept finding his glass empty no matter how many times he replaced it.

“One of your works, ‘The Last Song of Orpheus’,” a man in front of him said. “It really stuck with me. You’re an incredibly talented writer.”

Will smiled at a spot somewhere above the man’s right shoulder. “That’s kind of you to say,” he recited. Taking a compliment was one of the first things Beverly forced him to learn. 

“I bought a signed copy of your anthology the last time I was in Brooklyn,” said a woman tucked under the arm of the man. “It’s such an honor to be meeting you.” At this, Will risked a glance at the woman’s eyes. She was telling the truth, although her fourth glass of wine indicated she was about as eager to be here as Will was. 

Will only had a prepared response for “it’s a _pleasure_ to meet you”, and that wasn’t quite what she’d said. He wondered if saying “the honor is all mine” was an appropriate thing to say, considering the woman wasn’t famous at all, or if it was just off enough to be awkward. The wondering took him so long he ended up saying nothing, which the couple interpreted as dismissal and walked away before he could come up with a response he was confident in. 

The blunder barely had time to register before Will felt a hand on his shoulder, and Beverly’s face leaned into his line of sight. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she told him. “Will you be alright for a few minutes?”

Will pursed his lips, torn between appreciating and taking offense at the concern. “I’m a grown man, Beverly.” He made his tone indulgent to hide his slight but genuine annoyance. Beverly just held her hands up, making a face that said _I never know with you_ , and swiftly retreated to the ballroom exit.

It wasn't Will's first proverbial rodeo when it came to public appearances, but tonight had far surpassed his comfort zone. The gala, held in the honor of “moving contemporary voices” and raising funds for literary programs, was held in a ballroom that was a touch too small for a touch too many people. It was a historical building, just like almost everything else in that side of Baltimore, which just meant it was dark and squat and probably haunted. It was nothing like the signings and ceremonies Will was accustomed to, where there was a script he could follow and scheduled breaks he could rely on when the flow of people became too much.

Beverly didn’t expect him to be the life of the party, but she expected him to mingle, which was a bit like expecting oil to mingle with a pot of water. Will could certainly try, but without the crutch of her presence there was only so much smiling and nodding he could take before calling it a night and smashing something over his own head.

That was overdramatic, but being a poet surely afforded him a pass for the occasional hyperbole. People expected him to be a basket case— it was part of his charm, if he could be considered to have any charm at all. Nothing to see here, just nutty old Will, staring into space again. Probably coming up with a poem this very moment, what a treat to see an artist in action.

When it became clear Beverly wasn’t coming back any time soon, Will made a deal with himself to grow the hell up and talk about T. S. Eliot with some bland but otherwise harmless people. Their arrogance clung to him like a film over his teeth, and he used every trick he knew to leave himself unscathed as he let the emotions that weren’t his own wash over and through him. He counted his breaths, focused on identifying the smells of perfumes and dust. _You need stronger forts_ , a therapist had told him once. Perhaps a boat would be more practical.

The tipping point came once Will spilled champagne on the front of his tux. No one even bumped into him, he was just a bit too eager with a too-full flute, floundering as it splashed over his mouth and down his chin, drawing the attention of the small crowd he had been inching away from. “Are you alright?” Said a woman to his left, who placed a dainty hand on his shoulder he couldn’t stop himself from shrugging off. 

“Fine,” he muttered, declaring his jacket a lost cause and wiping his face with the sleeve. “Please excuse me.”

He didn’t actually know where the bathroom was, but he didn’t want to look like an even bigger asshole by wandering around trying to find it, so he just picked a direction that had the least amount of people and walked like he belonged wherever it was he was headed. A side entrance brought him to a small hallway, deserted except for a server that didn’t look at him as she sidled past and out the door he came in. The music was quieter here, and he noticed a slight breeze from where an ornate glass door was propped open at the end of the hall. Like a moth to the flame he followed the chance of respite, and found himself on a small balcony overlooking the estate’s grounds.

Swaying elm trees looked almost black in the low light of evening, accompanied by low hedges and carefully placed flower arrangements. The sun was long gone, and the air was blessedly cool against his slightly tacky face. He folded his forearms against the iron railing, and only then realized he was still holding his champagne flute. The last dregs were drained swiftly, and once empty Will let it dangle over the edge by the stem.

It was pure luck he didn’t let it drop, not even when he was startled by the sound of a throat being cleared just behind him. He looked over a hunched shoulder to find a man he didn’t recognize, holding a flute of his own and looking for all the world like he’d never been anywhere except exactly where he was. “Do you mind if I join you?” The man said, with an accent Will didn’t have a chance of placing.

Will opened his mouth, because he definitely _did_ mind, but closed it after reminding himself he had no claim to this space and thus no right to tell anyone where they could or couldn’t be. In the end he said nothing, just shook his head and stared resolutely at the horizon. Blessedly, the man made no attempt at conversation, and seemed to be there for the same reason Will was. Just another man seeking a moment of quiet in a night spent in the eyes of Baltimore’s high society.

That was what he seemed to be, but he wasn’t, and for some reason that bothered Will more than if he’d actually tried talking to him. "You're not out here to get some air,” he said, and blamed the alcohol for opening his mouth at all.

The man just looked at him, unaffected by the claim. "Am I not?"

When he shook his head it was a jerky, dramatic thing; Will could feel the champagne slosh around in his skull. "No, you're not like me; socializing is as easy as breathing for a guy like you. You could be in there for hours and would only need to take bathroom breaks."

Quietly stepping forward and facing Will, the man propped an elbow against the balcony. "And how did you come to this conclusion?"

"I have eyes."

"It could be said that most of my associates have eyes, but I doubt many of them could be so astute."

"Eyes and a brain, then." As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt the strong urge to fling himself off the balcony. He didn't bother hiding his cringe as he added, "Sorry, that was. That was rude."

The man just smiled, barely more than a twitch of his lips. "You're Will Graham, are you not?"

That made Will meet his eyes, and could feel the wariness in his own gaze. "Is that why you're really here? You some kind of fan?"

"I enjoy your work, yes. Although at this moment I'm more interested in the man behind the words."

Will snorted. "Do tell."

"You're not known for making public appearances. I must say I was surprised when I learned you'd be attending."

"I lost a bet with my publicist," Will muttered puerilely. The man smiled wider at this.

"You must forgive me for being grateful for that particular misfortune." 

"Can't imagine why. I'm not riveting company when I'm sober and not dressed like a charity case."

"I'd imagine you don't get much opportunity to prove yourself wrong." Even drunk, Will could translate— _you probably don't get out much_. He tried to muster up some offense, but the man hadn't said it unkindly, and he certainly hadn't been wrong.

"Hermitage suits me."

"A celebrated pastime for poets, to be sure. Would you see other human beings at all, if you could help it? If you could live entirely self-sufficiently, upon the shores of Walden?"

"I've been to Walden. Too many mosquitoes for my tastes." 

The man said nothing, not one to leave a question unanswered. Will sighed. "Maybe. Loneliness is by far the cruelest survival instinct.”

“Are you hoping that the longer you spend in isolation, the less loneliness will wear on your psyche?”

Will’s annoyance surprised him. “You’re a psychiatrist, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Figures. It’s not exactly polite to psychoanalyze someone you just met.”

The man’s face barely moved, but Will thought he might have seen something like contrition there. “I can no sooner turn off my curiosity than you can turn off your imagination. But I apologize for offending you. You are no stranger to having others intrude on your thoughts, it must grow tiresome.”

“You could say that.”

“Careless,” the man said, but not to Will. “A mind like yours is not one to be mishandled.”

“I’m not— I’m not _fragile_.”

“Certainly not. Respect is not the same thing as caution.”

Will did not know what to say to this. He opened his mouth, closed it, and began biting the inside of his cheek. “Respect is… not typically a reaction people have to my thoughts.”

“No, and what a shameful misconstruction that is.” 

An odd feeling of discomfort suddenly washed over Will, and he found himself wrapping his arms around his chest. “How did this get to be the conversation?”

Will felt the man’s gaze on him like a physical touch, cool and cutting as a scalpel. Eventually he took pity on Will, tilting his head as he replied, “We were speaking of loneliness.”

A deep, fortifying breath pressed against his arms, and he shook his head once to clear whatever fog had settled there. “To me loneliness feels like… a long leash, always keeping me from straying too far from humanity." He looked out to the stretching acres of manicured land, and forced himself to put his arms back on the railing. "I can reach the end of the lawn, but it starts to dig into my neck before I can reach the trees. At the other end, humanity is holding a rolled up newspaper." To the man, he flashed an awkward smile. "I have a tendency to piss on humanity's carpets."

"Surely humanity must find some value in you, otherwise you would not be worth the trouble."

"Sometimes I wonder."

"Art is always valuable, outside the monetary sense. You provide something that no one else can, and that is not something that can be said of a great many people within that ballroom."

"'Unique' doesn't always mean 'good'."

"'Good' is also subjective," the man replied. " _The Creation that they were looked at the God that I am, and they told me of goodness._ "

Will had had his own work quoted to him before, but something about hearing his words in the man's low, rich accent made the back of his neck break out in goosebumps. "That piece is about egotism."

"Surely you could stand to have your self esteem reassured, Will?" 

A rebuttal was on the tip of Will's tongue, but he found himself catching the man's oddly intense stare, and he forgot everything that wasn't black eyes that seemed to swallow every bit of light that reached them. The resulting silence stretched for an impossibly long second, until the man's expression shifted to something imitating reproachfulness. "My apologies, it was rude of me to assume. May I call you Will?" 

"Yeah," Will blinked, and then shook his head. "Yeah, no, that's— _shit!_ "

In an ill-fated twist of fingers, the empty champagne flute slipped soundlessly from Will’s grip, and fell to the ground like it was always meant to. Will watched its descent with his jaw clenched, until the sound of shattering glass pierced the fragile stillness of the night. His head tipped forward with a sigh, digging the heels of his clumsy hands into his eye sockets. “Goddammit,” he grunted, suddenly wishing he could just go home and forget he ever left the house.

The breath against his ear was the only warning he got before the man was speaking, too close and too low for Will to do anything but freeze, his heart hammering in his throat. “You should be more careful, Will,” he said, and the feeling in Will’s gut that should have been discomfort felt distinctly like fear. He kept his hands against his eyes, as if he was five again, and the monsters couldn’t see him if he couldn’t see them in return. But the breath was still there, and Will wondered almost hysterically if the man could smell his apprehension.

"Will!"

The sound of Beverly's voice yanked him forcefully out of whatever atmosphere they’d created, and when he looked up he found the man to be a perfectly respectable distance for a polite encounter, greeting Beverly with something that wasn’t quite a smile. She joined them on the balcony, looking annoyed and damnably sure of herself.

"For a second there I was worried you'd gone home."

"I should be so lucky," he replied, not quite feeling the easy banter behind it, and Beverly pointedly ignored him.

"Beverly Katz," she said to the man, smiling in that effortless way Will envied, and reached a hand out. "I'm Will's publicist."

"Dr. Hannibal Lecter," he replied, and Will wondered why she had been afforded that information and not him. "Will tells me his presence tonight is thanks to a bet he lost with someone. Might that someone be you?”

"He told you about that, huh?" She shot Will a look, which he could only shrug in response to. “Will said I couldn’t sell more than a thousand copies of _Toothless Wolves Still Howl_. I’m very good at my job.”

“And what a profitable bet to lose,” Dr. Lecter said, peering at Will with the same placid gaze, humor dancing on a still, black lake.

“As long as my dogs are fed, I’m happy,” Will replied, the telltale grip of exhaustion tugging at his eyelids and the tips of his fingers. “Is my presence required for much longer?”

Beverly managed to look annoyed and pitying at the same time. “I was just looking for you to relieve you of your post. You good to drive?”

“Most definitely not.” Will was already tugging his keys from his pocket, handing them to a smirking Beverly. 

“God, you’re lucky I like you. Very nice to meet you Dr. Lecter, I hope Will wasn’t too prickly. He can get a little cranky on the sauce.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Lecter replied smoothly, offering Will another look that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Will managed a nod and a “Dr. Lecter,” before hurrying inside and listening for the sound of Beverly’s heels following close behind.

The ride home was cool and quiet, but not nearly as cathartic as Will had hoped. Beverly plugged her phone in and was playing The Fray on Will’s shitty speaker system, and thankfully knew Will well enough to not try talking to him. He was left to watch the street lamps pass in peace, or whatever peace he could find when his thoughts incessantly looped back to the way his name sounded when Dr. Lecter said it, and wondering just what expression he was making when Will left him behind on the little balcony.

* * *

On Mondays, Will’s routine looked something like this:

He would wake up, either well past morning or well before. He’d let his dogs out, and drink a glass of tap water as he watched them run across the land behind his house. He’d brew himself a cup of coffee, and eat something insubstantial— beef jerky or a handful of dry cereal— before showering and brushing his teeth. The dogs would be fed and petted, and Will would dress himself in jeans and a sweatshirt before driving to the post office. 

Monday was mail day.

The volume of letters in Will’s P.O. box varied depending on if he’d released anything or been in the public eye the week before, but it rarely went beyond half capacity. Regardless, it was emptied every Monday, and marked itself as the only reliable point of routine in Will’s week. It was a day meant for feeling like a person, reading over the words of other people who saw something in Will’s words worth talking about. While he hardly ever responded to any, Will was diligent in reading every letter he received— whether out of obligation or narcissism, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the time for it.

The collected stack of letters sat unremarkably in the front seat on the drive home, and the dogs welcomed him back as if he hadn’t been gone for ten minutes at the most. Pouring himself another cup of coffee, Will took the letters upstairs to a room that was only labeled an office because it had a desk and a chair in it. The chair was ratty and unreasonably comfortable, making a soft _whoosh_ as he settled in to read. 

He idly shuffled the envelopes, judging their weight and looking for names he recognized. His work didn’t merit a devoted fan base, but there were one or two names that had appeared in Will’s inbox more than once- mostly people who connected a little too strongly with the more violent aspects of his poetry, and saw Will as either a confidante or a competitor they needed to out-creep. Others were just lonely, like the veteran from Indiana who found catharsis in his words, and felt the need to write to Will every few months to tell him war stories some of his poems had reminded him of. He was one of the few people Will wrote back to.

His name did not appear in the stack, nor did any of Will’s regulars. What did stand out was an envelope, thicker and rougher than the others, and square in a way that made it stick out even at a glance. It took two passes for Will to make out the name in intricate cursive, and once more to remember where he recognized the name from. _Dr. Hannibal Lecter,_ boasted the envelope, and Will felt his eyebrows creep towards his hairline. They went even higher once he flipped the envelope around, and he snorted incredulously at the _wax seal, who the fuck uses wax seals_ . It was so comically gaudy, and yet fit so perfectly with the image of the sleek, refined gentleman he’d drunkenly babbled at that Will couldn’t even fault him for it. Because of course. _Of course_ he would seal his fancy off-white envelopes with neat wax seals, deep green and stamped with “H.L.” framed between the antlers of a stag. It made perfect sense to Will, even if _why_ Dr. Lecter had written to him was still a mystery. 

There was an odd satisfaction in breaking the perfect seal, pulling out a letter that was as neat and expensive as the envelope would suggest, written with what Will knew had to be a fountain pen. In that moment, breathing in the smell of clean wood, he almost felt the doctor in the room with him, watching with those dark eyes as Will read over the bold, curling print.

_Will Graham,_

_I hope this letter finds you well, and fully recovered from a night of social frivolity. While I am more than grateful for the opportunity to have met you, I would not have it come at the cost of your psyche, whittled down by dull minds and large mouths. You were of course accurate in your assessment of my character- intermingling with my fellow man does not wear on my person the way I imagine it does for you, but you must not mistake this for engagement. Rarely do I find myself in the company of someone as singular as yourself; you must forgive me for not allowing our correspondence to be confined to a single night of indulgence. Attached is my personal contact information, should you wish to arrange for us to meet in a more comfortable environment. At the very least, we may finish our discussion of value, perhaps over a bottle of something to suit the occasion._

_I am greatly looking forward to it._

_Yours,_

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: We like to have fun in fiction land, but in real life cops aren’t your friends, and policing drug use and neglecting community outreach is a sign of failure to protect and serve. Stay safe friends.

The first poem Will wrote was on the back of a discarded grocery list. 

To say it was the first poem he’d ever written was perhaps misleading— he’d put pen to paper and written words without a narrative before, he knew what it meant to rhyme  _ array _ with  _ delay  _ and make it mean more than a superficial translation. These were poems brought to a teacher, sanitized and shown to an audience of his peers, thus stripped of any kind of authenticity. A boy who put effort into poetry brought to mind several conceptions of his character, none of which Will felt the need to bring to his classmates’ attention.

The first poem he wrote for himself was at the suggestion of Dr. Peck, a man whom Will was required to meet with twice a week, in an office that smelled like mothballs and stain remover. Dr. Peck had advised him to find an abstract way to express the feelings Will couldn’t put into words. Truthfully, he didn’t really have a problem vocalizing his feelings. He just didn’t feel like sharing them with anyone, let alone a man whose job was to tell NOPD if Will still had his head screwed on correctly. 

Poetry had been just one of Dr. Peck’s suggestions, but Will never really liked painting, singing or, god forbid,  _ interpretive dance _ . He didn’t need to buy new materials, arrange for space or time, or really do much of anything he wasn’t already doing. Injury leave had left him with an abundance of free time, which he filled by reading and rereading classics that had previously been collecting dust under his desk. Occasionally, he left his apartment to get food, or to sit on the steps in front of the apartment complex until he got bored. New Orleans was a beautiful city, but after three years of living there, Will sort of felt like he’d gotten the gist. 

It was after a trip to the Jackson’s down the street, far later than most people did their shopping, that Will eyed the little yellow paper that fell to the counter.  _ Milk, eggs, tortilla chips, bread, jerky, granola bars _ . It probably wasn’t long enough to warrant being written down, but Will had a tendency to forget things, and he really didn’t want to make two trips when just walking down the block was enough to leave him exhausted. 

If asked, Will wouldn’t have been able to say what made him pick up the pen that sat beside his laptop. He was tired, almost chronically, but his fingers jumped with a manic energy as he thumbed the list, clicking his pen over and over as he stared down at the blank page. For the past two weeks he’d been dedicated entirely to distraction; he could admit this to himself. He understood the neurology of trauma, how his brain tried to protect itself by shutting away the fear and throwing away the key. It seemed almost trivial; his brain had spent the last twenty-eight years actively making his life a living hell, and  _ now  _ it wanted to save face?

Dr. Peck said he needed to think about it. This, Will also understood. He’d read the neatly designed diagrams and he’d seen the poorly-scripted tv programs:  _ the first step to conquering a problem is admitting there’s one to begin with _ . The pain meds made him tired, but more pressingly, Will was tired of not thinking about it. He was tired of feeling its presence, tired of feeling its eyes on the back of his neck like it was waiting for an opening. So few things in Will’s life were entirely under his control, and somehow, armed with his pen and the notion of artistry, it felt like he was facing it on his own terms. It was this special brand of whimsy that allowed him to close his eyes, and for the first time, allow himself to truly think about it.

The smell was the first thing that came to him. He could still smell it when he cracked an eye open and considered the structure of a poem. They didn’t always have to rhyme, right? They could just be fragments strung together, like the flow of thoughts themselves.  _ It smells like the coast. _ He wrote, before frowning and crossing it out. 

_ The smell of the coast _

_ And gasoline _

The next thing was the sound. It had been nighttime, but nighttime in New Orleans was the furthest thing from quiet.

_ The sounds of joy mix like spice _

_ With the sounds of fear _

Will had known he was going to run the second their eyes met. It had felt trivial to shout “NOPD,” and almost like a joke to say “don’t move.” He was gone before Will had even opened his mouth, shoving bystanders aside to run down the nearest alley.

_ His mind is not his own _

_ Nor is his money _

_ And he runs because his body  _

_ is all he has left _

The man had cornered himself. It was almost anticlimactic how quickly Will caught up to him, not from his own speed but by the poor decisions of his target. Will watched him assess his options through a mind addled by cocaine, and it was no surprise when Will saw the glint of street lights reflect off steel. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered, raising his gun the way he’d been trained. 

_ A cornered animal _

_ Cannot be blamed for using its claws _

The man was fast, faster than Will could have accounted for, and the knife was buried in his shoulder before he had the chance to aim. Will couldn’t remember the sound he made, or the feeling of dropping to his knees. He remembered his partner apprehending the man, although how she had gotten him to the ground and handcuffed was a bit hazy. He remembered the paramedics tending to him, and he remembered telling them he was fine, really, that he just needed to give his report and go home. He hadn’t been able to go home for a while, but that was fine too, because they got the guy in the end, and Will got workers comp.

Will swallowed, and blinked down at the lines written in handwriting he hadn't bothered to make particularly legible. He read it once, and then twice, then felt the deep sinking dread that comes with the knowledge that he was going to vomit.

The grotesque thing that shared the apartment with him began to laugh and laugh, and Will could hear it loud and clear even with his hands clamped tight over his ears.  _ Oh Will, _ it cooed, and he tasted bile on the back of his tongue.  _ You’ll need to lie to yourself better than  _ that  _ if you want to play the part of Will Graham again. _

The truth scraped against Will like broken glass, and he felt viciously and utterly foolish for thinking he could side-step it so easily. This had been what he’d avoided so doggedly for weeks, and he had invited it readily to his table, as if he could have possibly been more prepared with a piece of paper and a little black pen that came in a pack of six.

The truth laughed again, and Will took no satisfaction in crumpling up the grocery list and throwing it swiftly in the garbage.

* * *

Will was out of breath before he even opened his eyes.

The nightmare was burned into the backs of his eyelids, but faded as he blinked, like the afterimage that comes from staring into the sun. His body trembled, drenched in sweat and achingly cold. There was an uproar of sound, and it took a moment for Will to accept it as coming from his dogs and not a remnant of his subconscious. 

His little pack was crowded around the front door, barking loud enough that Will almost couldn’t hear the knocking from the other side. Shakily, he got to his feet, and the dogs parted for him as he made his way to the front. Through the crack he opened in the door, he squinted harshly at the three men on his doorstep. “Yes?” He asked, throat dry and harsh from sleep.

“You Will Graham?” Asked the man in front, clearly the leader in whatever exchange they were about to have.

Will opened the door further, slotting his shin into the space Buster was desperately trying to wiggle through. “Who’s asking?”

The man reached into his pocket, and produced a badge. “Jack Crawford, FBI. We’d like to ask you some questions about an incident last night. May we come in?”

No matter how hard he blinked, Will couldn’t seem to shake the haze of sleep settled over his brain. “Alright,” he conceded after a long moment. At the click of Will’s tongue, his dogs obediently fell back, their tails stiff and twitching as they watched strangers encroach on their territory. 

There were several things that required addressing, and after a moment Will concluded the most pressing was just how visibly soaked his clothes were. After awkwardly depositing the agents on his couch, he grabbed the first clean clothes he found and retreated to the bathroom to change. 

The bathroom mirror confirmed Will’s suspicions that he looked about as groggy as he felt, which was only mildly remedied by washing his face and donning a dry Henley. He allowed himself a moment of examination, staring back into his cloudy blue eyes and bracing his arms against the vanity. There were FBI agents in his house. This could go very poorly, depending on what they wanted from him, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be cowed in his own home. 

The beginnings of a headache stirred behind his eyes, and after a second of debate Will grabbed some Ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet. He swallowed two with a handful of water from the sink, and took a fortifying breath before reentering the living room.

Agent Crawford seemed preoccupied with Harley, Will’s pitbull mix. Her tongue lolled as he scratched the scruff of her neck, his smile pinched and awkward on his face. The two other yet-unnamed agents had their heads ducked together, muttering something Crawford apparently didn’t care to acknowledge. 

“Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?” Will offered stiffly, because he was supposed to.

“No, thank you,” Crawford replied, right as the older of the two agents said, “Water would be great, actually.” This earned him a harsh glare from Crawford, but Will acquiesced easily enough. The dogs crowded his ankles as he shuffled to the kitchen, procuring a glass of ice water and ignoring whatever words he heard from the living room.

“You said there’s been an incident?” Will ventured once he placed the glass and a coaster on the coffee table.

“Two men were murdered in White Marsh last night.” Jack Crawford spoke lowly and precisely, like saying the wrong word would set off an unseen bomb hidden inside Will. “Their corpses were mutilated, and meticulously displayed. The FBI hasn’t made an official statement, but we believe this was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will had no idea what expression he must have been making, but Crawford allowed the information to absorb before he said anything else. “...Huh,” Will said, once he identified his main reaction as confusion. “Okay.”

“You’re familiar with the name?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper? I actually studied him briefly, back when I was getting my behavioral science degree,” Will’s voice took on a mumbling quality towards the end, the cogs in his head turning involuntarily. 

Crawford looked like he wanted Will to ask him what that had to do with him. “What does that have to do with me?” Will asked, because he could be a good sport when he wanted to.

“If you’re that familiar, then you know the Ripper creates tableaus from his kills. Recreating iconography, famous classical works, that kind of thing.” At this, Crawford made a gesture to the younger of his companions, who dutifully placed a folder in his waiting hand. From the folder Crawford pulled a glossy photo, placing it on the table and sliding it to Will with little fanfare.

The photo was not actually from the crime scene in question, as Will had expected, but rather a capture of a fresco. Although Will wasn’t familiar with the particular piece, the subject matter was one he recognized, even without looking in the bottom right corner, where “ _ St. Sebastian, Benozzo Gozzoli c. 1465 _ ” was written in red ink. The saint stood in peaceful surrender, surrounded by angels and executioners from his perch on a low pedestal. His bare torso was an artful pincushion of arrows, and his pained eyes looked heavenwards from within the halo that denoted his sainthood.

“This is the piece that the Ripper drew his inspiration from,” said Crawford. “The first victim was found placed on a tree stump in Cowenton Ridge Park, stripped with the exception of a loin cloth, and impaled thirty-five times by arrows.”

Briefly, Will’s eyes slid shut, feeling out the edges of second-hand cruelty like prodding a bruise. “And the second?” He asked, although he didn’t need to. He already saw the props in the scene, knew the outline of the design, but he needed Crawford to  _ say  _ it. 

“The second victim was sitting in a lawn chair facing the first victim, surrounded by Heineken bottles and holding a carton of Reds. Death was determined to be from blunt force trauma to the back of the head.” The information hung in the air like an awful stench, thick and still and Will could  _ see _ it, every drape of cloth and skin and achingly deliberate death.

_...Sebastian begged with his whole heart _

_ Not for the arrows to stop, but for someone to see _

_ See, for the love of God, see how I bleed for you _

_ And like a tree in the forest, no one does _

_ No one but a man on his fifth Heineken _

_ Who might say, “Jesus, friend, someone sure took the piss out of you” _

_ And if they meet eyes over the cherry of an unfiltered _

_ And if Sebastian is seen _

_ (And he is seen) _

_ And if it is the closest either of them come to Grace _

_ Then God doesn’t need to know _

_ Sainthood is ultimately decided by the sinners  _

It wasn’t what Will would consider his best, or even his favorite poem, but it was the most popular. It would be the first to come up in a Google search of his name (or so Beverly tells him, he never bothers to check), right next to the Amazon page for his anthology and a Twitter account he never used. 

“I didn’t go anywhere last night, you can check my car’s GPS,” Will said wryly.

“You’re not a suspect, Mr. Graham. The Ripper has essentially drawn a huge arrow in the sand pointing directly to you, and we would be remiss if we didn’t follow up on it.” Crawford leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and trying his best to catch Will’s gaze. “Do you have any idea why the Ripper would reference your work like this?”

Will had to keep himself from laughing. “Seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” And it did; Will didn’t think you needed to have to have an empathy disorder to understand a message. “The Ripper wants to be seen.”

“Seen by you?”

Will did not need to ponder this, although he hesitated before he spoke. “Yes,” he admitted. Jack Crawford didn’t need to know just how often his work caught the attention of more unsavory characters. “I imagine the Ripper believes he can find a kindred spirit in me.” There was a nudge at Will’s foot, and he smiled down at Buster before hauling him onto his lap. “He’s in for a disappointment, of course,” he grunted, shifting the little dog until they were both comfortable. “Most of the poems I write aren’t even about me.”

“So what now? Do you believe the Ripper will come after you next?”

The Ibuprofen wasn’t working nearly fast enough, and Will blamed the persistent ache for his snappishness. “I have to admit I’ve read up on you before, Agent Crawford. For the head of the BAU you seem to be seeking a lot of answers from a civilian.”

If this surprised Crawford, he didn’t show it. Will had to give him props for that. “I’m not asking you for answers, Mr. Graham, I’m asking for your perspective.” He splayed his hands, offering his palms to the ceiling. “You aren’t a layman, you told me yourself that you have a behavioral science degree, in which you  _ specifically _ studied the Ripper. You may have valuable insight, and I am not going to let a chance at catching him pass us by.”

Buster made contented snuffling noises as Will silently scratched behind his ear. After a tense moment, he glanced at Crawford and sighed. “No. The Ripper is not going to come for me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The Ripper is an artist above all else. He covets the classical masters, he seeks to create beauty in its rawest form. He wouldn’t deprive the world of art, even my humble contribution, by killing me.”

“He could kidnap you,” Crawford countered.

This gave Will pause, but he shook his head after a second. “The Ripper believes he has found an equal, or at least the potential for one. He’s going to want to see what I do, and he’ll want it to be on my own terms. Kidnapping me would be-“ Will smiled crookedly, smothering it as quickly as it came. “It would be too  _ forward _ .”

An eyebrow rose on Crawford’s forehead. Next to him, the younger agent was hastily scribbling on a small notepad, the older occasionally pointing at it and whispering into his ear. “You seem very sure of his motives,” Crawford said after a pregnant pause, and Will felt his shoulders stiffen.

“I am.”

When Will didn’t elaborate, Crawford asked, “Does it have to do with your empathy?” The glare Will shot him was instinctive, and a couple dogs that sensed his tension gathered around his chair. “You’re not the only one who can read up on people, Mr. Graham.”

“Might as well call me Will, if you’re so goddamn familiar.”

Crawford’s hands came up. “It’s just due diligence, Will, I mean no offense by it. What I’m  _ saying _ ,” he gave Will a look that made whatever retort he had die on his tongue. “Is that if you say that’s what the Ripper will do, I believe you. I do.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Will turned his glare to an indistinct point on the wall. “Right.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem to set up a safehouse for you, Will,” Crawford said. “He could be watching you, even if you’re right about him leaving you be.”

Will took several breaths, his agitation soothing significantly faster with the added weight of a dog in his lap. “It wouldn’t matter to him either way; he isn’t that invested in me,” he said eventually. “This is the equivalent of ordering a drink for someone you’ve been eyeing across the bar.”

“What kind of bars have  _ you _ been going to?” muttered the younger agent. The older agent whispered something Will couldn’t hear, causing them both to snicker.

Crawford didn’t look away from Will when he said, “Price, Zeller, could you please do me a favor and wait in the car.”

Properly admonished, the older agent cringed. “Sorry, we’ll-”

“ _ The car, _ ” Crawford bit out, and the agents were gone within seconds. “I apologize for them, they were the only agents available on such short notice. They don’t usually do a lot of field work.”

“Forensics?” Will guessed. “I get it. Easy to forget how to behave when the strangers you’re normally around are too dead to care.”

Crawford’s smile was wry and a bit twisted. “You’re sure you don’t want a safe house?”

“If he can make it past six dogs and a rifle I think he deserves to get to me.”

As far as jokes went, it wasn’t his best, and Crawford didn’t laugh. “I’ll issue an agent to keep watch on your property. And I’ll leave you my number, I expect you to call me the second you get wind of anything.”

Will accepted the offered business card, half ready to crawl back in bed despite having gotten up less than ten minutes ago. “Thanks for stopping by.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! My tumblr, Twitter, and instagram are all @striderepiphany. Come say hi!


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